


I Could Be Your Own Avenging Angel

by M_Moonshade



Series: The Silken Tether [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Biting, Episode: s05e24 Empok Nor, M/M, Marking, Purring, creative interpretations of xenophobia and in-group/out-group dynamics, questionable strategic decisions, somewhat dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29237412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade
Summary: Hoping to salvage medical supplies on the mission to Empok Nor, Julian becomes the focus of a drugged Garak's obsession.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Series: The Silken Tether [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2179938
Comments: 102
Kudos: 236





	1. I think I remember you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter and Work title from "No One Will Save You Now" by Aviators

Stolzoff and Pechetti are dead.

Two drug-addled Cardassian soldiers are on the prowl.

The runabout is gone.

The subspace communication system is down.

And to think, Julian almost sat out on this mission. He could have been back in the infirmary, setting broken fingers and writing about prions. But Miles was going, and so was Garak, and he thought it might be fun, like exploring a haunted house in one of those old holos he watched as a teenager.

Of course there’d been the practical aspect: he didn’t expect the Cardassians had left any in-tact biobeds or tricorders on Empok Nor, but he’d hoped to find some spare parts, at least. Something to speed repairs the next time their equipment broke down. There’s even a hope—a very distant hope, but he’ll hold out nonetheless—that there might be some medical files that haven’t been purged from the system. He could use some more comprehensive data on Cardassians at the moment.

Because something is very wrong with Garak. He’s hiding it, of course, but there’s not much he can do about the sheen of sweat on his face. Even more concerning is the scratching—ordinarily Garak would be too self-possessed to display such an obvious sign of distress, but now he’s itching at his scales like he wants to claw them off entirely. At the rate he’s going, he might just manage to do it.

Miles is busy keeping the rest of the salvage crew from devolving into panic while they put together an escape plan. Julian has no place in this conversation, so he focuses on being what he is: a doctor.

“Might I have a word?” he asks, and takes Garak’s elbow to pull him aside. He might as well be tugging at a duridium pylon. The scratching has stopped. Every muscle is tense. For an instant only his eyes move, cold and sharp and utterly focused on him.

Just as abruptly he bends, allows himself to be led away from the engineers. The intensity doesn't leave his face, but it's masked behind an accommodating smile. “But of course.”

Julian pulls them back just a little further, though he stays just within earshot. Much as he’d like to preserve Garak’s privacy, a trap-riddled derelict crawling with enemies is the wrong place to get separated from the group. “I want to take another look at your hand."

Garak looks like he might laugh. “Do you really think this is the time?”

If Julian is being honest with himself, it isn’t. But he needs this.

There’s nothing he can do for Stolzoff and Pechetti. The feat of engineering Miles is planning to get them out of this mess is light years beyond Julian’s ability. He's competent enough with a phaser that he might be some help when the other Cardassians come back, but they’re still lurking in the far reaches of the station.

Right now there’s only one thing he’s good for, and that’s what he’ll do.

“You’re showing signs of a reaction to _something_ ,” he insists. “And less than an hour ago you had skin contact with an unknown biogenic compound. Even you can't pretend that's a coincidence.”

“And if it isn’t, what exactly do you plan to do about it?” Garak tilts his head at the tricorder at Julian’s hip. Thanks to the dampening field, it’s little more than an awkwardly shaped paperweight. “Your medical supplies were on the runabout, if I recall.”

“At least I can monitor your condition—”

“To what end?” There’s an edge to Garak’s voice now. “Much as I appreciate your concern, I assure you that I am perfectly well.”

Damn the Cardassian and his bloody pride. He can’t accept a bit of medical help, oh _no_ , that would require admitting actual _weakness_ , and he can’t have anyone knowing he might be a _mere mortal._

Julian swallows his frustration and changes tack. “For all I know, it might be something negligible. Just an allergic reaction to something in the substrate. But it would give me some peace of mind to take a closer look and be sure.”

It’s a damned lie, and they both know it. If there's anything Garak is allergic to, it's his own damned vulnerability. But the lie is as good as an olive branch. A willingness to compromise. And for all his stubbornness, Garak makes a compromise of his own.

“If you’re really so worried, then you can take a closer look on our way back to Deep Space Nine. But at the moment, it seems, my services are needed here.” He raises his voice to address O’Brien, who's in the middle of assigning tasks to the rest of the crew. “I’m flattered, but I’m afraid I have other plans.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” O’Brien demands. Julian could ask the same thing.

“I don’t intend to stand around waiting to be killed.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I’m going to find those two Cardassian soldiers,” he adjusts the settings on his phaser, “and neutralize them.”

* * *

“O’Brien to Bashir.”

Julian taps his com badge. “Bashir here. All’s well on our end.”

That’s his job now. He’s guarding the door of the wardroom and regularly checking in with Miles while the remaining engineers do the actual work on a panel inside. And Garak—

“Any sign of Garak?” he asks. Because _of course_ he hadn’t deigned to wear a com badge.

“He just came by. Said he took one of ‘em down. He’s going after the other one now.”

Julian squeezes his eyes shut for just a moment, letting himself feel the relief that sweeps over him. One down and Garak is still alive.

Of course he is. He's a spy an assassin. He's more than capable of the task before him. Even if he is ill. 

“He mentioned something, though," Miles continues. "Says the soldiers were part of a military experiment gone wrong. Dosed to the gills with some kind of psychotropic drug, meant to make ‘em more xenophobic.”

“ _What_?” 

“The point is you need to keep your eyes open. Doesn’t sound like there’ll be much reasoning with this last one. O’Brien out.”

Julian’s mind is racing. Because what Miles said doesn’t make _sense_ , not in any way he understands medicine. Chemicals can account for things like aggression and inhibition, paranoia, even pack-bonding. But xenophobia is evolutionary and cultural, not chemical. 

Unless there’s something in Cardassian neurochemistry that he doesn’t understand. Which is entirely more than possible, because whether the reason is chemical or cultural, the damned Cardassian government has wiped nearly all relevant medical data from available records. 

_Focus, Jules._

He heard something echoing Miles’ voice just now. A muffled, tinny noise. Footsteps, carefully timed so the conversation would cover the sound.

It’s close—but that means nothing in the long empty passageway. Every sound echoes and bounces off the walls, coming at him from all directions.

The Cardassian is here. Closing in. Ready to strike.

He would barricade the three of them inside the wardroom, but the door won’t shut behind him. He’s the only solid barrier between the soldier and the engineers.

Julian squints into the deep shadows, searching for movement, for anything.

Nothing.

Not until he feels the faint breeze of movement by his neck.

He whirls, raises his phaser, but the Cardassian is already on him.

One hand grabs the weapon. The other closes around his throat.

Brutal pressure.

Claws at his trachea.

And then: Light.

The claws dislodge and the Cardassian crumples at his feet. A smoking wound is all that remains of the soldier’s left side.

Julian kneels briefly, checking for a pulse. The soldier is dead.

But he isn’t the only Cardassian in the passageway.

Julian knows Garak is there without turning. Not just there, but standing right over him, and Julian has to back away as he rises to his feet. Garak’s scales glitter with fresh sweat. His fingertips twitch like he means to scratch an itch. His eyes, though—his eyes are alight with a luminous, dizzying glee.

He looks—

He looks _drugged_.

“You should be more careful, my dear doctor.” Garak’s voice is soft and low, so at odds with the intensity in his eyes. “Something _terrible_ could have happened.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Julian should shout, warn Boq’ta and Amaro, but he can’t raise his voice above a whisper. “I was lucky you were here.”

“ _Lucky_ ,” Garak repeats with a long, slow shake of his head, like it’s the punchline to a joke. “Listen to yourself. Still the optimist after all these years.”

He leans in closer— _too close_ —so deep into Julian’s space that their skin is almost touching. His lips part and he draws in a long, shuddering breath. For a moment Garak’s eyelids drift shut like he’s sipping a fine glass of kanar.

His eyes snap open again, and Julian is caught in that stare. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, my dear.”

Mentally Julian is running through strategies and potential outcomes. Running scenarios for disabling Garak, the chances of having to kill him, the probability of dying in the confrontation. He doesn’t like his odds. But he keeps his voice steady. “Who said I was afraid?”

“There’s no need to put on a brave face for me. I can taste it on you.”

Closer. Closer still. There’s a bulkhead at his back.

Julian doesn’t remember how to breathe.

“It isn't luck that keeps you safe, my dear. Luck can run out. I'm not as fickle as a roll of the dice."

"Aren't you?" He swallows. "I don't think you've spoken a true word since I met you." 

"Then allow me to demonstrate." Garak leans in, his breath hot in Julian's ear. "So long as you're with me, no one will hurt you." Fingertips trace lines of fire down Julian's cheek, slowly dragging his attention back to those blazing blue eyes. "I'll kill them before they get the chance."

“You already have.” Julian means to nod at the dead Cardassian, but he can’t quite look away. “O’Brien told me you already got the other one.”

“O'Brien is a dangerous man.” He flashes a smile full of teeth. “An entire station at his disposal. No limits but his generous imagination. Do you have any idea what he could do to you?”

"He wouldn't."

"You told me that he hated you."

Julian remembers those words, the irritable griping between discussions of literature-- but that was _years_ ago.

Does that even matter to a Cardassian? He's seen firsthand the kind of long games they can play. Even a blunt instrument like Dukat can bide his time for close to a decade before putting his pieces into play. Julian could give reams of evidence of Miles' innocence, and it would only prove his cunning. 

He’s spent enough lunches arguing with Garak. He knows the precise threads of logic that bind the Cardassian’s arguments, and sometimes he can unravel them to his own ends. Now those threads are hopelessly snarled. Julian might be able to untangle the mess, but not here. Not now. Not when a single wrong word could cost two men their lives.

So he makes a gamble.

“This,” he whispers, and he finally lets the fear seep into his voice. “This isn’t the place to have this conversation. We need to go somewhere else. Someplace more secure.”

Garak’s eyes slide to the door of the wardroom. Boq’ta and Amaro’s bickering voices still filter into the passageway, entirely unaware of the Cardassian just outside.

“Don’t,” Julian says. “If you go in there, they’ll warn O’Brien.”

He can see the calculations behind Garak’s eyes—the same equations Julian ran just seconds ago.

“My dear, clever doctor.” Garak’s voice is nearly a purr. His hand slides against Julian’s chest. When he pulls away, he’s holding the com badge. “Best leave this behind. I wouldn’t want him to make it easy for him.”


	2. Hold the Beast

Empok Nor feels like a twisted reflection of Deep Space Nine. It has the same bones—no, the same exoskeleton—though everything alive inside it has been broken and scavenged. He might have mistaken it for an alternate dimension if he hadn’t seen that other universe with his own eyes.

The emergency lights are dim and distant even by Cardassian standards. It's only thanks to his augmented vision that he can see at all, and avoid tripping over the debris that's gathered in the passageways. There's plenty that was left behind, scraps and personal effects and pieces of furniture too unwieldy to be worth moving-- most of it is scattered or broken, thanks to a year without artificial gravity followed by its very abrupt return. The automatic doors, too, are damaged. Some stand shut as though they're still lived in, but others gape half-open like broken jaws. 

Garak shepherds him into a turbolift and out again, through a passageway, up two flights of stairs, down another long row of doors. He's obscuring their route, making it that much harder to trace through usage logs. It's no wonder he outmaneuvered the two soldiers so easily. Even suffused with the drug, he's every inch a spy.

They stop seemingly at random, but Julian knows better than that. The door before them is open wide enough to let them slip through without obvious evidence of tampering. These are officer's quarters-- decently sized and furnished, but not enough to suggest anyone in command. 

"Make yourself comfortable, my dear." Garak's hand has barely left the small of Julian's back before he's across the room, righting an overturned... Julian would call it a couch, if that kind of word could be applied to something so ruthlessly pragmatic. It's solid and heavy, but it moves easily in Garak's hands. 

Julian forgets, sometimes, just how strong Garak really is.

That's what makes this so important. 

Garak flashes a smile and tips his head in a slight bow. "I'll be back soon." 

Julian's thought about this moment every step of the winding path between here and the wardroom. He's run the figures in his mind until they made his head spin, and they all came out the same way.

“Wait.”

If they’re going to have a chance of getting rescued, Miles needs to get the distress call out—and that’s going to take time. There's no hope of subduing Garak in a fight. Even with his augmented strength, Julian is no match for Garak’s training.

But there are other ways to play this game.

He’s not certain that Garak’s guess was right. Yes, he can understand a chemical substance increasing aggression and paranoia and lowering inhibitions, that much he’s seen before. But if the pathogen increases the vague concept that is xenophobia, why would he so eagerly kill the other Cardassians? Unless it isn't as simple as all that. Neurochemistry never is. And that makes this a risk. But it's an educated risk, and he's prepared to bet his life on it. 

“Don’t leave," Julian says. He’s aware that his pupils are wide in the low light. His breaths come heavy from anxiety and the forced march through the station. "Please. Stay with me.” 

“I won’t be gone more than a moment, my dear." Garak takes a step toward Julian. Away from the door. "I won’t let them harm you.”

Miles and the others need more time.

“I know. But please. Please don’t leave me alone.” Julian bows his head, hoping it makes him look small and afraid.

He’s rewarded by a scaled forehead ridge pressing against his brow. They’re so close that he can taste Garak’s breath—and he’s sure Garak is tasting his as well. Can he sniff out the manipulation?

It’s nonsense, of course. If Garak was in his right mind, he’d be laughing at Julian’s ploy. But he isn’t, and that means Julian has a chance. That means Miles and the others have a chance, if he can make Garak buy it.

Julian shudders and tries harder to believe the story he’s trying to sell, to make it ring true for them both.

It isn’t as difficult as he wants it to be. He should be disgusted by this. Garak is promising to murder his friends and colleagues. He’s tried to kill them before. He tried to kill Julian—to wipe out an entire world—when he thought Cardassia required it. And it would be so much easier if Julian didn’t understand his reasoning. If he could write Garak off as immoral, as evil, as the bloodthirsty attack dog of the Cardassian Empire.

If he didn’t recognize the desperate fear behind those despicable actions.

Or the love.

It’s that love that keeps Garak here right now, pressed like armor against Julian’s chest. Julian wraps his arms around Garak’s arms and pulls him closer still, clings like a frightend child. Garak doesn’t pull away from the obvious restraint.

It’s working.

Garak pets his hair. “It’s alright, _ss’lei_. I won’t leave you.”

He shifts to rub their cheeks together, his orbital ridges scraping against Julian’s zygomatic bone. There’s a rasping inhale as his nose presses to the short curls just under Julian’s ear, where beads of sweat begin their descent down his neck. A rough tongue flicks across the border of his hairline, catching another droplet before it can fall.

Julian’s stomach drops into his knees. His heart is pounding.

The tongue keeps going, lapping at the trails of sweat running down Julian’s neck.

_Increased aggression. Reduced inhibitions._

The edges of teeth slide against his trapezius, so light he can almost pretend it’s accidental. Right until they sink into the meat of his shoulder.

Julian jerks away with a gasp, and he's surprised to feel Garak release him without hesitation. He stumbles backward, his knees buckling when they hit something solid, and he falls back. The couch. He's sprawled across the couch. Prone.

Garak's eyes are on him, looking for all the world like a starving man in front of a feast. Sweat makes his scales glisten like opals. His mouth hangs slightly open, inhaling, _tasting_. His hands flex open and closed almost compulsively, ready to grab and pull.

“Forgive me, doctor." His voice is raw. "I… misunderstood the situation.”

His eyes are beast-wide as he turns on his heel and begins to walk away. Every muscle in his body is tense, stiff, restrained.

Garak is swaying on the edge of a precipice. The last of his control is visibly cracking, and soon it will shatter entirely. If he’s still in this room when that happens, there’s no telling how far he’ll go.

If he isn’t, then he’ll turn his attention back to Miles and the salvage crew.

Julian tells himself he’s making a rational, pragmatic decision. He tells himself that he’s acting in the interest of his crewmates.

He tells himself it has nothing to do with years of covert glances at the no-longer-covert operative.

He tells himself it has nothing to do with the the way his nervous system lights up every time Garak so much as touches his arm.

He tells himself it has nothing to do with the heat pooling at the base of his spine.

In a single motion he springs to his feet. He grabs Garak by the shoulder and pulls him back in with all his strength. For an instant they're falling, tangled together. Surprise twists Garak's face into a ferocious snarl, momentarily unmasked as he focuses on catching himself, to keep the most of his weight off Julian's ribs. And that leaves him unguarded long enough for Julian to drag him into a crushing kiss. 

He can't see. Can't breathe. Can't think. The whole of his world narrows to the body pinning him down, the teeth scraping over his lower lip, the hot breath scorching his lungs, the desperate _want_.

Clever hands unfasten Julian's heavy uniform jacket and toss it unceremoniously aside. Subtly scaled palms slip beneath his undershirt and glide against his chest, shucking the fabric a tantalizing centimeter at a time. For all its intensity, the touch is surprisingly light. Those palms barely graze Julian's ribs. His diaphragm jumps in an involuntary laugh, teased out by the almost-tickle of scales against skin.

"So sensitive," Garak murmurs. "It's a wonder your species has survived so long with such delicate features."

The shirt rises further, the turtleneck clinging stubbornly to Julian's face. For an electrifying moment he's cut off from the world, left with only the sound of rustling fabric against his ears and the brush of Garak's hands at his clavicle.

The shirt is tossed aside.

Garak looms over him: predatory. Hungry.

_And too fucking far away._

Julian digs his fingers into the broad ridges on either side of his neck. He's rewarded with a hissing gasp, an arched spine, the plunge of lips against his throat.

Just lips. Tightly restrained, too careful, too controlled. _Teasing_ , damn him!

Julian can't restrain a needy groan. "I'm not so fragile as all that."

"I beg to differ, my dear." His fingertips brush feather-light over familiar points: the exposed jugular, the subclavian hiding just beneath his collar bone, the brachial artery in his inner arm. "One careless touch and you would bleed out all over the upholstery." 

"You've never been careless a day in your life."

"I could still make you bleed." His voice dips low, as dangerous and inviting as the edge of a cliff.

Julian tilts his head to one side, baring the long plane of his neck. "Prove it." 

Finally, _finally_ , Garak bites down.

And he bites _hard_.

Teeth carve through skin. Pain shoots through his veins in a surge of liquid heat that flares in his gut, his bones, his groin.

Julian can’t hold back a cry, but this time he pulls Garak in closer, twining his legs around Garak's thighs, wordlessly begging for more. 

Garak draws back and presses a kiss to the hollow of Julian's throat, almost tender after the savagery of that bite. His lips ghost over flushed skin before they settle on the opposite side of Julian's neck.

“No one will touch you.”

Another flash of exquisite pain.

“No one will dare.”

It’s careful.

“Because you’re mine.”

Calculated.

“ _Mine_.”

Claiming.

“ _Yours_.” The word slips out of Julian’s mouth before the teeth leave his skin.

Garak pulls back to look at him. His lips are bloodstained, his scales tinted cobalt blue, his eyes are so _bright_. When he sinks down again, his kiss is gentle. Sweet, despite the iron and salt on his lips.

"And I am yours, _ss'lei_." His head tips forward until they're pressed together, ridge to brow, breathing the same air. When he takes Julian's hand, he's shaking. Under the fine scales of his palms his pulse is racing. Something wet drips from his face onto Julian's cheek, and he searches those beautiful eyes for tears. 

No. Sweat, diverted from his eyes by those ridges. 

Julian reaches off the couch and retrieves the high-necked undershirt from where Garak tossed it aside. It’s finer than standard-issue replicated uniform, almost velvet to the touch. A gift from Garak, once he noticed the way the rough fabric and unfinished seams frayed at Julian’s nerves. It's a small kindness from a man who insists he has none to spare.

Now Julian takes the soft fabric and dabs the sweat from Garak’s brow. He can't help but remember the last time he dared to touch him this way, when Garak lay dying in the wake of a different high. Ordinarily Garak wouldn't let himself be so vulnerable. He would armor himself with clever words and slip away. But he just looks at Julian-- the way the Bajorans look at the wormhole, like he's something beautiful and holy. 

The cloth brushes the delicate ridge of his _Chufa_ , and Garak goes still. 

Julian pulls back. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

Garak takes a shuddering breath. “No.” It sounds almost like ‘ _do it again_ ’.

Carefully, reverently, Julian traces that same ridge with his fingertips. He watches in wonder as Garak’s eyes flutter shut, as his chest vibrates with a deep hum.

The sound is nearly inaudible, but Julian can feel it in his bones. He wants to be closer to that sound, to sink into it, to drown in it. Before he realizes what he’s doing he’s turned them over and climbed into Garak’s lap, chest pressed against broad chest. Barely a thought and he slides higher to press lips to _chufa_ , and the answering purr sweeps over him like a wave.

“Ah, _ss’lei_ …”

There’s a part of him that registers the advantage of this position, of having Garak caught so thoroughly beneath him. But it’s hard to care about all of that when the hairs on the back of his neck are on edge with sweet frisson, when strong hands are pulling him closer, when the air is full of sweat and blood and—and something else, something unfamiliar but heady and sweet and new that he wants to _taste_ \-- 

“-shir?” A faint sound, inconsequential, unimportant, barely audible past that heavenly purr. And then again, a few decibels louder. “Doctor Bashir?” He recognizes the voice now. Nog.

Another voice. Boq’ta. “Garak?”

_No. No, no, no!_

They’re heading this way. Any minute now and they’ll be close enough for Garak to hear them. And then—

And then.

Garak’s eyes narrow just slightly, noting distress. Julian can’t hide it, so he covers his tension with a desperate kiss.

He should have known better. In an instant Garak’s spine stiffens, his hands go rigid, his eyes flick to the door.

“Garak,” he whispers. “I need you to listen to me.”

“It seems we have company.”

“Yes, we do.” There’s a jolt underneath him, and he remembers to be grateful for his weight pinning Garak down. “Listen— _listen_ , Garak. You have to stay here. Give me a few minutes, and I can get rid of them.”

“I assure you, my dear, so can I.” The cold threat is tempered by the brush of a hand on Julian’s cheek.

“I know you can,” Julian whispers. “But I’m asking you. Please. Let me do this.”

He can see the argument forming behind Garak’s eyes, behind the tension in his brow ridge. So Julian makes another gamble. He bows his head and catches the ridge of Garak’s neck between his teeth. A sharp nip—enough to bruise, if not to bleed.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he whispers into the newly made mark.

When he pulls back, he’s sure that Garak believes him.

* * *

“What the devil happened to you?” Miles demands.

For an uncomfortable moment, Julian fights the urge to touch his neck. But no, the turtleneck is pulled even higher to cover the bite marks. The last flecks of blood have been wiped from his lips. His once-mussed hair is flat against his skull. Yes, there’s a cool patch of sweat-soaked fabric against his side, but it’s hidden by the uniform jacket.

In short, he _doesn’t_ look like he was straddling a Cardassian all of three minutes ago.

“One second you’re standing watch, and the next there’s a dead Cardassian on the deck and no sight of you. You scared Boq’ta and Amaro half to death with that stunt.”

“I’m sorry about that.” Half of Julian’s attention is focused on the corridor behind him, listening intently for the sound of booted feet. The other engineers are secreted away someplace else, likely wrangled by Nog's overeager discipline. They won't be coming this way anytime soon. “Something came up.”

“The hell it did!” Too loud. Miles is too loud, and he sounds too angry. Julian knows him well enough to recognize the furious panic of worry, but Garak’s in no state to make that distinction. “What were you thinking, taking off your com badge and—”

“Miles, I need you to lower your voice.”

He's pissed at the interruption, but at least he gives Julian the courtesy of a whisper. “What the hell is going on?” 

“It is of the utmost importance that he does not hear you.”

He can see the connections being made behind the crease in Miles’ brows: there were three stasis chambers; one Cardassian was dead upon arrival, the other two have since joined him. No other signs of living inhabitants on the station. One crewmate unaccounted for. “Garak?” His voice is barely audible now.

Julian nods. Intellectually he knows Garak can’t hear him, but a superstitious part of him refuses to let him say it aloud, as if his name will carry farther than the rest of the conversation and summon him here.

“The biogenic compound you told me about,” he says. “It’s infected him.”

“Shit,” Miles hisses under his breath. “Where is he? Did he hurt you?” He looks Julian up and down—does he see the wrinkles and smears of dust on Julian’s clothes? Have the crescents on his neck bled through the fabric?

“I’m fine,” Julian says too fast, before Miles can process anything he might have spotted. “The situation is under control. But it’s only going to stay that way if you and the others keep far away from Deck 85.”

Another frown. “How the hell did you manage to lock him up in the habitat ring?”

“I didn’t.” They haven’t invented a lock that Garak can’t slip through, especially not on a Cardassian station.

“Now hold on a minute—this stuff is meant to make ‘em hunt down all non-Cardassians, isn’t it? What’s keeping him from going after you?”

“Xenophobia isn’t necessarily a simple racial dynamic, though, is it? It’s about in-groups and out-groups, and that’s far more complicated than can really be accounted for by something as simple as a drug. Being the same species didn’t stop him from killing those soldiers.” Julian almost shrugs, and thinks better of it. Better to not disturb his collar more than necessary. “Apparently he sees me as part of his in-group.”

Realization dawns on Miles. “Right. Because you’re his mate.”

Julian’s face goes hot and his mind stutters to a halt. He doesn’t—how can he—but he _hasn’t_ —is it that obvious?

It must be written on his face the same way it’s carved into his body. The claiming teeth, the anointing tongue, the savage whispers: _Mine. Mine. **Yours**._

“What?”

“Well, you’re practically the only one he can stand, aren’t you?” Miles asks. “Though you wouldn’t know it, the way you two bicker all the time.”

Oh.

Oh. Right. _Mate_ as in _friend_. Not—

Right.

“Yes.” Julian tries to regain control of his voice. “Well, unless Amaro or Boq’ta have been spending a lot of time shopping for new clothes, I think it’s best they keep their distance.”

“I’ll see to it.” Miles shakes his head. “I don’t like the thought of you going back there, though. He may be safe now, but there’s no telling what he’ll do. The Cardassians left those soldiers behind for a reason.”

"I can handle it." Julian swallows. “How goes the distress beacon?”

Miles frowns at the change in subject. “It’s already transmitting. Amaro and Boq’ta finished before they noticed you’d gone. Gave ‘em a right scare.”

“I can imagine.” His throat is dry. “How long before anyone picks up the signal?”

“Knowing the Captain, there’s already someone keeping an eye out. It’s just a matter of getting another ship out here.”

At most, a few hours, then. Julian can survive another few hours.


	3. Like a hand in a flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day!
> 
> Have another chapter~

The door of the quarters hangs half open, just like Julian left it. He measures the gap against the last image in his memory. It’s precisely the same, down to the millimeter.

But that doesn’t mean anything. Garak managed to slip inside once, after all; there’s no reason why he couldn’t have come back out again without disturbing the door.

He didn’t hear anyone else in the passageway with him earlier, but Garak has a talent for moving silently.

 _But Garak believed me,_ he tells himself.

_How would you know? Deception is the man’s first language._

_He would have listened to me._

_And maybe he did. Right until the chemical cocktail in his system changed his mind. Or made him forget what you’d said. Or made him hallucinate something else entirely. You have no clue how it’s affecting him, and you’re making a bunch of uneducated guesses based on what you **hope** might be true. It’s bad science and you know it._

He slips through the door without nudging it open further. His insides twist into knots as he sweeps his gaze across the room.

It’s empty.

He’s gone.

“Garak?” It comes out half broken. He’s caught in a riptide between panic and despair, and for a moment he feels like he's drowning. “Garak!”

_What if he’s dead what if Miles is dead Nog is so young Garak please no—_

A shadow separates itself from the the darkness. There was nothing there a moment ago—Julian is _certain_ there was nothing there—but suddenly Garak is striding across the room to catch Julian in his arms.

“Lost your faith in me already, my dear?” Scaled hands caress Julian’s face and slide down his body in what would have felt like an embrace if Julian didn’t know better. Garak’s patting him down—checking for weapons, for injuries, for listening devices. Their faces brush, ridge rubbing against cheek, and he catches the soft intake of breath as Garak studies his scent.

He was right not to take the com badge when Miles offered it to him. He’s not sure what all Garak can smell on him—fear, obviously, and leftover arousal—but he took care not to let Miles touch him, either. Nothing at all that might set off the drug-fueled paranoia.

But he didn’t. And Garak stayed here. Nobody else died. Just this once, everything went right.

He almost laughs, intoxicated by relief. "I was afraid I wouldn't find my way back."

"It all does blend together, doesn't it?" Garak steps away to glance through the door, checking for signs that Julian was followed. 

"It does if you can't read Kardassi." Except he can read Kardassi. He picked it up in order to make more nuanced arguments about Garak's insufferable literary selections, and he's been honing it for intelligence gathering during their time on the _Defiant._ Of course, he's never told Garak as much outright, but that's never stopped him from making inferences before.

Does that make it a lie, or is it as acceptable a bit of banter as Garak insisting that he's just a tailor?

His thoughts derail when he feels Garak's chest press tight against his back. For an instant, a thrill of fear, and then he feels Garak _purr._ The sound soaks through his spine, into his ribs, lighting up his nerves from the inside. His knees threaten to buckle, but Garak is right there with waiting arms, holding him up, holding him close. 

"I wish I'd known it was so easy to sweep you off your feet," Garak murmurs into his ear. "I would have done this long ago." 

"And what exactly are you planning to do with me?" The challenge barely escapes through heavy gasps. He's guided forward, one step at a time, like this is all some kind of illicit dance.

"I'm going to strip away your defenses, one by one." A broad hand slips under his shirt and sweeps against his skin like he can soak up all the heat coursing through him. "I'm going to take you apart until you're begging for me. I'm going to make you _scream_."

Julian nods frantically, but already his head is tipping back to rest on Garak's shoulder, and Garak eagerly accepts the invitation. He nips at the delicate skin just under Julian's ear, huffing a gratified laugh as Julian yelps. Another nip further down, another. Each bite takes Julian's breath away, leaves him whimpering and writhing for more. Garak tugs at the high collar of the undershirt, and there's a faint discomfort as it rips away from the recent wound, taking a fresh scab with it. 

"You'll have to let me wash this for you, _ss'lei_ ," Garak murmurs. "It's nearly impossible to get blood out of Bolian cashmere." His tongue soothes the newly-opened bite mark.

That's supposed to mean something to Julian, but his mind is adrift. Nothing matters but the arms around him, the tongue against him, the purr vibrating inside him. And that hand moving lower, under the waistband of his trousers, over the curve of his iliac crest, into the crease of his thigh.

"Garak--" And _oh_ , Julian is already begging. "Garak, _please_." 

Another dark chuckle rumbles in his ear. 

There's something Julian is supposed to remember, but it's so hard to think when his mind is shorting out. He couldn't have come up with something so perfect, never in his wildest fantasies--

But this isn't a fantasy.

His hand closes around Garak's wrist. He wants so badly to guide it lower, to show Garak exactly how he wants to be touched, stroked, worked open. Instead he draws that tantalizing hand higher, back to safer terrain.

Because this isn't a holosuite. This is real. Blissfully, terrifyingly real.

And that means there are consequences for his actions.

"Stop." It's the right thing to say, but he hates it all the same. "Please, Garak. Stop." 

Those pliant arms pull back to hover just over his skin, stiffening into the bars of a protective cage. Garak is suddenly alert, bright blue eyes guarded and intent and confused.

Of course he's confused, when Julian is fighting the need to push him down onto that couch and ride him until they both forget that there's a world outside this room. He could drive Garak out of his mind.

Except Garak is already out of his mind. 

_What were you **thinking** , Jules?_ The voice of reason finally emerges from the haze of lust. _You're supposed to be a doctor. You're supposed to be his **friend**. What part of that makes you look at a man drugged half past sanity and decide that **this** is the time for a shag?_

_What is **wrong** with you?_

It was one thing when other people's lives were on the line. But this?

This is unconscionable. 

He steps slowly away, wincing as the protective circle of Garak's arms breaks and falls away. Their only point of connection is his hand desperately wrapped around Garak's wrist.

Garak stares at that point, his expression inscrutable. "Something happened out there." His voice is perfectly even. "What did they do to you?"

Julian's blood goes cold. "Nothing. They didn't do anything."

"If they laid a hand on you--"

"Nobody touched me." He can hear the panic creep into his voice, knows Garak can hear it too.

Those cold blue eyes are on his. Interrogator's eyes.

"What did he say?" Garak asks, as sharp and precise as a scalpel.

Julian's mouth curls around the truth, that the others were just worried about him, just afraid something had happened. But he can't form the words before realizing how much they taste like an excuse-- and not even a good one.

So he tells a lie that's closer to the truth. "Miles told me about the psychotropic drug. The one that was affecting the soldiers. I think at some point along the way it got into your system."

"Oh?" Garak laughs, cold. "What a remarkable vector, to infect me in the ten minutes that you were gone."

"I told you before that you were having some kind of reaction." He looks down at the hand he's so desperately holding onto. The fine microscaling of Garak's palm is discolored and inflamed. "I think it's been affecting you for some time."

"And you think I'm going to turn out like _they_ did? Homicidal and out of control? One more monster to put down like a rabid hound?" 

Julian swallows back the fear. His heart is pounding so hard he can hear it.

"I know you won't hurt me," he says. "But the drug might be--" _Is_. "--making you do things you wouldn't otherwise do. Things you might later regret. I don't want this to be one of them."

Garak takes a step closer.

"That's very noble of you, my dear." A second hand closes over Julian's. Just as quickly as he arrived, the interrogator is gone. "But I assure you, I am in perfect health. I haven't been so clear-headed since--"

"Since the wire?" 

Garak's expression doesn't change, but his eyes unfocus. He can't quite disguise the anxious tightening of his grip. They both remember what Garak did in the throes of withdrawal. To himself. To Julian.

At last Julian has gotten through to him. 

It doesn't feel like a victory.

Slowly, carefully, Julian raises Garak's hands to his lips and stamps a kiss to his knuckles.

"I want this," he says slowly. "I want you. But right now you aren't yourself. So I... can't. Not yet." He extracts one hand and touches Garak's neck ridge, tracing the crescent bruise he left there with the pad of his thumb. "I meant what I said, Garak. I won't let anyone hurt you. Not even me."

"My dear doctor." Garak reaches out to brush a hand against his face.

And then the world erupts into burning, blinding light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is from the song "A Dangerous Game" from Jekyll & Hyde. Every rendition I've seen of this song has had a completely different vibe to it, so I recommend the Original Broadway Cast recording.
> 
> Also: I just finished A Stitch In Time and I find it fascinating that Garak is able to render himself nearly invisible when he wants to be.


	4. Harsh Light of Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A content warning for conversation about sexual assault. 
> 
> If you want to skip that particular section, do a quick "ctrl+F" for 'A pneumatic hiss as doors' for the beginning of the section, and 'That deep shadow' for the end.

It happens in an instant. Every light, every screen, every interface in the room blazes to life at once, burning with the intensity of a star gone nova. After the murky twilight of Cardassian auxiliary power, the sudden assault hits like a bat'leth to Julian's retinas. Even throwing his hand over his eyes doesn't spare him-- it sears through the thinnest parts of his flesh until the outlines of his fingers are glowing red even through his eyelids.

Garak doubles over against him, hissing in pain. He releases Julian for a moment, probably to shield his own eyes, but a moment later a hand returns to Julian's wrist.

A deafening roar fills the air. It's too much. Too overwhelming Too loud. Julian might just scream when the hand pulls him around and urges him to move. He couldn't refuse even if he wanted to.

He's dragged into a jog, then an outright run. Garak must have led him into the corridor, because they should have hit a wall by now. There's no way to tell. He can't think under the onslaught. The roar drowns put the sounds of their footsteps, and every time he tries to squint he's assaulted by another blinding flare of light.

Until suddenly, blessedly: darkness. 

He recognizes the turbolift by the odd vibration of the floor under his feet, the oil-and-ozone scent, the familiar breeze in his hair when it begins to move. The thunderous noise continues, though it's muffled by the closing doors. As they rise away from the source of the sound, the roar distills into recognizable syllables. Words. A voice.

Miles' bellowed command repeats over and over until the turbolift leaves it behind entirely:

_"Get your hands off him, you bastard."_

And Julian knows, even before his abused vision adjusts to the darkness. 

The other person in the turbolift isn't Garak. 

He's wreathed in shadow and silhouette, too short, too thin, giving that awkwardly overeager salute.

Nog.

There was a time when the last few minutes would have left Julian half destroyed. A part of him still wants to sink to the floor and rock until he can't feel the vibrating floor, to scream until he can drown out the ringing in his ears, to distract himself with a thousand controlled sensations until he can dull the impact of reality.

But he can't do that.

So he merely stares at Nog, utterly silent.

"...Doctor Bashir?" The salute falls into a confused anxiety just this side of flailing, and Julian is reminded suddenly of Rom. It isn't often that the family resemblance is so very striking. "It's alright, Doctor Bashir. You're safe now."

Julian doesn't reply. His still too overstimulated to multitask. His mind is elsewhere, gathering evidence to construct an approximation of what the hell just happened.

Localized light controls overridden to run at maximum output. Intense brightness to stun and blind sensitive Cardassian eyes. More effective than cutting the lights entirely-- an assassin would have the advantage in the dark.

Loud noise projected over the intercom to confuse and overwhelm, and to cover the sound of Nog's arrival and retreat. Likely distorted to avoid frequencies painful to Ferengi ears.

An extraction. Quick but thoroughly planned. 

Another thought keeps circling through his brain, but he shies away from it like it's some predatory bird, like if he can cover his head and hide it won't sink its talons into him.

The turbolift opens again, this time onto the station's operations center. For a moment he's hit with a peculiar vertigo-- it's so like Ops on Deep Space Nine, but reflected through a warped looking glass. The lights, surprisingly, are turned up to Starfleet standard levels, revealing the dust and grime that has adhered to every surface since its abandonment, disturbed in places where free-floating debris scratched away at the patina. 

It takes him a moment to register Boq'ta and Amaro, concealed as they are behind partial cover in his peripheral vision. They both have their phasers locked on the turbolift as if they half-expect Garak to leap out from behind him. 

"Mission accomplished, Chief," Nog calls. He ushers Julian out of the lift and it sinks out of sight behind them, the opening replaced with an oval of level floor. 

"Good man," comes the voice he heard just a few moments before-- but real this time, undistorted except by a metallic echo as it reverberates off duridium walls. There's a metallic click, a beep, and then the constant hum of the station changes slightly, the frequency shifting by a few notes that Julian can barely perceive. "There we go. Those lifts aren't going anywhere." 

Miles climbs out of the engineering pit with a haggard stiffness that Julian has only seen a few times. He almost winces when he looks Julian in the eye, but he doesn't look long. "Boq'ta, Amaro, keep a lookout. Nog, Julian, a word." He nods to the captain's quarters. Nog frets Julian in the same direction with all the nervous dedication of a working corgi. 

"Wait, why are we keeping watch?" Boq'ta asks. "Weren't you going to seal this section off from the rest of the station?"

"I did," Miles says grimly. "But you can never be too careful with the likes of 'im. Keep your eyes peeled." 

That dark thought keeps circling, circling, so close he can feel the chill when it passes overhead.

A pneumatic hiss as doors slide open and shut again behind him, and the there of them are shut away from the others. 

"Julian?" It isn't often he hears Miles sound so tentative. "Are you-- no, ignore that. Of course you aren't alright." 

Finally Julian manages to drag himself back into the present moment. His voice is hoarse. "Miles. What did you do?"

"I swear we got you out as fast as we could. We weren't gonna leave you there."

"Why?" Julian asks. Demands, as he feels anger swelling to squeeze the air from his lungs. "I told you to stay away. I had everything under control!"

"That's not what it sounded like to me."

Julian shakes his head in disbelief. "You... what... you planted a com on me?" When? _How?_ How did he manage it without Julian noticing-- without _Garak_ noticing it was there?

"You already said it would be too risky. Besides, I didn't have to." Miles jerks his chin at Nog, who's halfway to another nervous salute. "Nog was stationed in the room under yours and passed along what he heard." He attempts a grim smile. "Ferengi ears. They're a marvel." 

Bile rises in Julian's throat. The acidity of it is all he can feel-- the rest of him is numb. He stares at the cadet. "How much did you hear?"

"All of it." Nog won't meet his eyes. "We came for you as soon as we could," he adds quickly, like an apology. 

"I had it under control," Julian repeats. He can barely hear his own voice.

"Do you really expect me to believe that?" Miles asks, angry despite his effort to be gentle. "Have you seen yourself? You look like you went snorkling with Taurian piranhas. What the hell were you _thinking_ , trying to hide that from me?"

Julian remembers a fresh scab adhered to fabric. _You'll have to let me wash this for you, ss'lei. It's nearly impossible to clean blood out of Bolian cashmere_.

"It isn't what you think."

"A professional interrogator said he was going to _take you apart_ \--" 

Julian can feel the shadow of hysteria closing over him. "He didn't mean with a scalpel."

"You think I don't know that?" Miles asks. 

"Doctor Bashir." Nog fidgets. "I lived on Deep Space Nine before the Federation took over. There were a lot of Cardassians on the station, and not a lot of them thought to install soundproofing in their quarters. Sometimes you... hear things." He averts his eyes. "Especially that... rumble they make. During sex. It carries."

"You think he was..." Julian can't even say it.

_Increased aggression. Loss of inhibition._

Miles isn't looking at him either. "I think you did whatever you thought you had to to keep the rest of us safe."

And that's true-- except it isn't-- and it's all gone wrong-- and Garak--

That deep shadow finally descends on him. 

This is his fault.

Not the other Cardassians, not the drug, but he'd had every opportunity to mitigate the damage and he hadn't taken it. Of course not. The _brilliant Doctor Julian Bashir_ had been feeling obsolete and unimportant, and he couldn't have that. Then along came Garak and made him feel all special-- so suave and clever and attractive, like a real _hero_. 

And who is Julian Bashir not to rise to the occasion? To seduce a drugged man and congratulate himself for his _noble sacrifice_? To disappear without so much as a word of proper explanation to the others and feel thrilled that he was going in alone? And oh, he couldn't _possibly_ have told Miles what he was doing, because heroes don't have uncomfortable conversations about their methods. 

He thought he could handle it. He thought he was clever enough to save the day.

And his arrogant self-indulgence is about to get a lot of people killed.

He squeezes his eyes shut as the specter of guilt and shame sinks its talons deep into his brain, but he doesn't let it carry him off.

Because this isn't a game, and he's not it's hero. But he's not the villain, either.

Because he _tried_ , dammit, even if he failed.

He tried.

And he isn't done trying yet.

When he opens his eyes again, his voice is finally steady. "We'll talk about this later. Right now we have more important things to worry about." 

"Julian--" Miles is cut off by a sharp look. "What's the situation?"

"Garak is under the impression that you intend to kill me." He looks Miles in the eye. "And as far as he's concerned, you just proved him right."


	5. Cry Havoc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: This chapter includes moments of suicidal thoughts and ideation. Please do what you need to take care of yourself.
> 
> This chapter we also get to see Garak's POV, and just how badly the drug has been messing with his mind.

The sudden brightness arcs like lightning into Garak's skull. He doubles over, pulls out of Julian's arms to shield his eyes, but he can't escape. Silently he begs for the wire in his brain to save him, to take away the agony, but it leaves him alone with the blinding light and the deafening roar and the _pain_.

Through strength of will he tries to right himself. Slowly, gingerly, he squints against the migraine lights. Because this is a distraction. Another, more direct attack is coming, and he must be ready for it.

But he's already too late.

The assault on his senses ends as quickly as it began. No point in peering into the sudden darkness, no point in straining his ringing ears. He can already feel the yawning emptiness around him, the lack of presence that had been there just moments ago.

His eyes adjust enough to spot the door to the corridor: shut. Locked.

And Julian-- his Julian-- isn't there.

Panic sends his blood racing in ways that pain never could.

He let go. He _let go_ and now Julian is gone. Lost. _Taken_.

He throws himself at the door. Locked. Paces the walls like the caged animal he is. He's trapped in here, on this derelict station, the walls are closing in and it's only a matter of time before they cut the life support to the habitat ring and already he can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't get out and he can't breathe--

And his Julian is out there. On the other side of the door. 

Maybe still alive.

He clings to that stupid scrap of hope with desperate hands. 

Maybe he's still alive. They wouldn't have taken him if they planned to kill him right away-- easier to shoot them both right away and dispose of the bodies afterward. 

If Julian is alive then there's still a chance to save him, but it must be soon. 

His mind is still racing but he forces the memory to come: he kept track of Empok Nor before it was abandoned. Remembers the Gul in charge at the time-- Isser was her name. And her security codes...

He tries to say them aloud, but the computer doesn't respond. Of course audio commands have been disabled. He should have expected no less from his enemy. No matter. He rips the cover off an auxiliary panel and enters the override manually.

The door slides open, and he flees his makeshift prison.

The corridor is silent and dark and empty. He wants to shout for his Julian, scream his name-- but no. That would just play into his enemy's hands.

He must move swiftly. Silently. If he's detected, Julian may die.

* * *

The five of them gather around the situation table. 

"Things are about to get bad," Miles says. "We need to be prepared for the worst."

"Garak is on his way here," Julian adds. "What we need is to keep him out of Ops as long as possible."

"We've already done that, though," Boq'ta says, his hope bordering on hysterical. "We've locked down the quarters, that entire level of the habitat ring-- and we've shut off access to operations."

Julian shakes his head. "Locked doors have never stopped him before."

"But they might slow him down," Miles says. "Boq'ta, I want you to lock every door, force field, and security access on the station. Rescue is already on the way. Our best bet is to run down the clock until they get here." 

The Bolian scurries to the nearest computer panel to make it so.

"Are we really going to just sit here playing hide-and-seek?" Amaro asks. "There's five of us and one of him. We can take him."

Julian is already running the numbers before meeting Miles' eyes.

"What are the odds?" Miles asks quietly.

Two engineers who haven't held a phaser since their last certification class, one cadet fresh out of the academy, one augment, and the Hero of Setlik III-- against a desperate, crazed professional assassin.

"Ninety-two point eight percent chance of at least one fatality," Julian says. He doesn't voice the other statistic: seventy-eight point four five percent chance that only one person walks off this station alive. Either Garak or himself. He doesn't have the stomach to determine who.

Amaro clears his throat. "Hide-and-seek it is." 

"At least we have the advantage," Nog pipes up. "He doesn't know we're here."

* * *

Garak can feel the floor shudder as doors slam shut on the levels above and below him. Likely elsewhere, too. Everywhere on the station.

They know he's coming. They'll be ready for him.

Ordinarily he would thrill at the challenge, but it doesn't interrupt his focus. The clock has started counting down. Every wrong turn, every locked door, will cost precious time. He can't afford to choose his route unwisely.

Where to? 

Engineering? The reactor core? They're the seat of his enemy's power, even on the other station. It's where he feels at home. Safe.

But no. Too open. His enemy is a soldier and a tactician. He'll want a place he can defend. Control.

Operations.

Yes.

Layers of defenses against a potential slave uprising. The most defensible part of the station. 

It will be sealed off. Forcefields in the stairwells and hallways. Turbolifts locked into barricades at the top of their shafts.

Locked, and therefore fixed in place.

He moves as quickly as he can without giving himself away. Every locked door and forcefield that crosses his path announces his presence. He overshoots, backtracks, detours through a Jeffries tube, disables two traps and pockets their payload. Only when he's sure he's covered his tracks does he return to the rounded doors. A bit of debris for a crowbar, and the door opens easily. Before him yawns the gaping maw of the turboshaft, black and unending. Its ragged gullet is lined on one edge by the rungs of a ladder meant for quick escapes and service personnel. 

It goes on farther than his eyes can track. All the way to the top of the station's crown. All the way to his goal.

He reaches out. Grabs the nearest rung in sweating palms.

One wrong move and he might just fall forever.

No. Not forever. 

Only until he's reduced to a smear of gore.

But Julian is waiting for him. Depending on him.

He climbs.

* * *

Tension weighs heavy on them as the minutes creep past. It's been far too long since Garak last bypassed one of the security doors in the habitat ring and triggered an alarm. Since then there's been no sign of Garak, and no way to track him.

Amaro searches what's left of the station's database for any sign of remaining booby-traps, for remaining weapons stores, for anything they could possibly use.

"The Cardassians probably took all the viable weapons with 'em when they left," Miles says, looking at the readouts over his shoulder. "Otherwise those soldiers wouldn't have killed Stolzoff and Pechetti bare-handed."

"Unless they were hunting them for sport," Amaro mutters under his breath, but it carries to fill the chamber.

"Garak isn't playing a game," Julian says quietly. 

"No, _apparently_ he's on a _rampage_." 

"It's you he's after, isn't it?" Boq'ta asks. "So why can't we just show him you're alright? We could have you talk to him over the station's intercom. Wouldn't that calm him down?"

"It might," Julian says grimly. "Or it might provoke him into doing something more extreme. At the moment he's dangerously paranoid and unstable. It's difficult enough to predict his movements when we know what he's thinking. If we push him off his current track, we'll lose the one advantage we have." 

"So we just sit here and wait for him to kill us?" 

"Or hope rescue gets here first."

* * *

Garak's knees lock. His back cramps. His hands, slick with sweat and punctured blisters, slide on the rough metal.

He's climbed nearly the length of the station, rung over rung.

He doesn't dare to rest.

This is his fault. He was distracted. Tempted. Weak. He could have protected Julian, _should_ have protected him, but he let his sentiment get in the way. Wasted his time comforting the sweet doctor when he should have been doing his duty. Better to let his Julian feel some fear. Better to let him hate him. Only let him _live_.

That is the lesson Tain tried to teach him a thousand times over. With every harsh hand, with every brutal order, with every assignment that dragged him farther away from the warm embrace of Cardassia.

Love is doing the hard thing so _they_ don't have to. Love is saving them from afar. Love is sacrifice of life and contact and affection so your beloved can be safe and free.

His Julian understands this. That's why he pulled away. That's why he ended things when he did.

What Garak did-- holding Julian, kissing him, marking him-- that wasn't love. That was _indulgence_. _Selfishness_. And that weakness might get his Julian killed.

Julian's blood might already be on his hands, and Garak can still taste it on his tongue. 

For a fleeting moment he thinks about letting go, falling, taking the ignoble death befitting the self-serving bastard that he is.

But no. No. Not if there's any hope that his Julian is still alive. And if he isn't, then he will be avenged. These halls will be painted with the blood of his enemies.

The turbolift hangs overhead, solid and impenetrable.

But to his side, a maintenance hatch.

He pulls it open. The Jeffries tube is narrow and poorly lit.

He enters it without hesitation.

* * *

"What do you mean you want to go back to the infirmary?" Boq'ta demands. "I thought you said we were safest here!"

"That's funny, I thought we were sitting ducks," Amaro says.

"If there's any hope of doing this through non-lethal means, we'll find it there," Julian argues. "With a sedative, or with biobed restraining fields. We have to at least try--"

"Quiet," Nog says. He's gone dangerously still.

"The only thing we have to do is get out of this alive, do you--"

"That's enough, Amaro," Miles snaps. He nods at Nog. "You hear something, Cadet?" 

Nog nods, his eyes unfocused. "He's in the turboshaft. Three... maybe four meters below us."

Amaro makes a small, miserable sound. "Well. That's one way to do it."

He's looking at the turbolift controls.

He's right.

A few quick commands to disable the lockdown, and the push of a button will send the turbolift down the shaft. Garak might find a way to survive the fall-- if anyone could, it's him-- but the chances are slim enough to be practically impossible.

"I've got a wife waiting for me back on DS9," Amaro says, barely audible. "I don't want to die."

Julian could stop him. Cross the floor, restrain him, knock him unconscious. 

Instead he watches, silent, as Amaro buries his face in his hands.

"Something's happening," Nog says. "He's opening a hatch. He's... I think he's in a Jeffries tube."

"How long do we have?" Julian asks quietly.

"Ten minutes from there, give or take." Miles' voice is flat. Ten minutes to come up with a plan. "There are four exits in ops. Our best bet is to take a position outside each one-- up high, from a wide angle, so he can't see you when he comes out. Set phasers to a heavy stun and fire the second you see a scale. Boq'ta, I want you in the ready room. Amaro--"

"No, Miles. That isn't going to work."

Their time is up.

* * *

A few moments.

That's all he needs.

Just to catch his breath.

His heart is pounding. His hands are shaking. His fingers still want to curl into claws as if trying to climb another set of rungs. But there's nowhere else to climb. And even if there was, he couldn't make it.

He only needs to crawl just a little bit further. Just a little bit more, and then it ends.

Garak is exhausted and outnumbered. There's no way he can outfight his enemy. Not here. Not now. 

But he doesn't have to. 

He has two canisters strapped to his side, looted from disabled traps. In one, anesthizine gas.

Activated and thrown, it will fill the entirety of the chamber in moments. A deep breath, a carefully measured pulse, and Garak might have enough time to search for his Julian. He'll kill the others before they wake up.

In the other canister is neurocine.

If Julian is dead, then his enemies won't outlive him for long.

Garak takes a slow, shuddering breath. Another. Another. Bit by bit, his heartrate steadies. Slows.

He creeps onward, utterly silent. It's hard to feel any presence through the metal walls of the cramped passageway. Almost as difficult to hear, but he catches voices, raised in agitation. Arguing, though he can't make out the words.

Closer. Just a little closer.

And then he hears a sound he can't mistake. The buzz of a phaser. The hollow thud of a body hitting the floor. 

The burnt-ozone smell hits him a moment later. 

He scrambles forward as fast as he can crawl. He has to know-- has to see for himself--

More phaser fire. Another metallic crash. Another.

He throws open the maintenance hatch and rolls into a crouch, but he's unnoticed. 

His Julian stands tall-- _alive!_ \-- ringed by a halo of charred metal and half-melted polymer, the evidence of narrowly-dodged disruptor fire.

Scattered on the floor around him are bodies. The Bolian slumped across a control console. The Ferengi draped over a railing. A human on the floor.

Only his enemy remains, his back to Garak, his eyes fixed on Julian.

"I sure hope he's worth it," his enemy says.

Julian doesn't offer any pithy reply before he fires. The beam hits his enemy straight in the chest, and the blond man falls. 

Slowly Garak rises to his feet. Unmasks his presence. 

Those soft, dark eyes fall on him, and he is offered a timid smile. "Hello, Garak."

Garak moves slowly, unsteadily. Even after his rest, his legs don't want to carry him.

"You're alive." He has no faculties left for wit and flirtation. "My dear, my Julian-- you're alive."

He all but collapses against his beautiful brave human, his hands sweeping over him. No bruises, no new blood. 

"It's alright, Garak. I'm not hurt." Julian raises his hand and cups Garak's cheek. His head tips forward, his brow pressed gently to Garak's _Chufa_.

So close, all Garak can sense is Julian, alive and whole. All he can taste is Julian's breath and the burnt ozone of phaser fire. He sways. After all his rage, his grief, his despair, he finally feels at peace. 

"I'm so sorry," Julian whispers. "It never should have come to this."

Garak's strength finally fails him and he sinks to his knees, out of the warmth of his Julian's embrace. How can Julian apologize? How can he shoulder any blame? Garak shakes his head. He wants to confess his failures, to grovel, to beg for forgiveness he cannot earn.

But the pleas die in his throat.

In the corner of his eye he catches movement. The Ferengi boy rises. Raises a phaser.

The blast hits Garak in the center of his back.

* * *

Garak doesn't have much further to fall, but Julian catches him before he hits the floor. He lays him down gently, as comfortably as he can, and carefully checks his vitals.

His blood pressure is dangerously high, his breathing is labored, but his heart is strong. He'll make it. 

Julian rises slowly, and tries not to let the relief sound bitter in his voice. "That was an excellent shot, Nog."

"Thank you, Doctor Bashir." 

While Boq'ta and Amaro rise and dust themselves off, Julian checks on Miles. The phaser was on its lowest setting when Julian shot him, but a sudden fall onto a metal floor always carries some risk of injury. Thankfully there are no signs of concussion, no unaligned joints, not even his trick shoulder. The worst he'll get from this will be some mild bruising. 

"Is the Chief going to be alright?" Boq'ta asks.

Nog is the one to answer. "At that setting, a Human shouldn't be unconscious for more than five minutes."

"And what about him?" Amaro nods at Garak.

That's harder to determine. Depending on the species, a high-powered stun could put him down anywhere between fifteen minutes and a full hour. With Order training and a Cardassian constitution, Julian would estimate something on the low end of that spectrum-- but Garak's age and obvious exhaustion make him far more vulnerable. He crouches to check his vitals again, just to be sure.

This time he sees the canisters clipped to his belt.

He forces his voice light. "I don't think he'll be a problem." He raises the canister of anesthizine gas. "Regular doses from this should keep him thoroughly unconscious until help arrives." 

He removes the other canister and tucks it into his pocket. At the first opportunity, he'll toss it out an airlock.

This secret-- just this one-- he'll keep between the two of them.


	6. No Confessions Left

Garak is kept in stasis on the way back to Deep Space Nine, and he remains unconscious until he's fully treated and the drug is neutralized. There are other, smaller injuries-- bruising and blisters, torn muscles, minor scratches and burns-- but they are mended with little difficulty.

It's spineless, maybe, that Julian hides away behind the doctor's console when Garak is finally revived from sedation. 

He doesn't know what he'll see on Garak's face in those first unguarded moments, but the endless possibilities leave him terrified. 

So he holds back. He listens for the change in breathing, the rustle of moving fabric as Garak sits up in the biobed, and only then enters with a freshly replicated glass of water.

At least he doesn't leave someone else to greet Garak when he wakes.

At least he's not a complete coward.

"Hello, Garak." Two words. Extensive genetic augmentation and years of medical practice, and that's the extent of his bedside manner.

"Doctor Bashir." Garak's smile gives nothing away.

Perhaps there isn't anything to reveal. Anesthizine is known to cause lapses in memory after use, after all. Maybe he doesn't remember what happened.

That would be best.

"How are you feeling?" 

"Like I would make a terrible engineer. I'm afraid scurrying around in turboshafts doesn't agree with me."

He says it so simply, like it's a silly little joke. Like it doesn't carry the weight of everything that happened on Empok Nor.

Julian forces himself to match his tone. "That's a shame. I'll send your regrets to Chief O'Brien." 

"Much appreciated, Doctor." A pause. "And while you're at it, perhaps you can send my compliments to young Nog. He has spectacular aim."

Julian's chest feels painfully tight. "Garak." Breathe. "I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. For what happened back there." Breathe. "I crossed some lines. I shouldn't have." 

Garak tilts his head with that same impenetrable smile. "There's no need to apologize, Doctor. You did precisely what was necessary. I only regret that you're doomed to see the worst sides of me in your line of duty." For a moment that smile doesn't quite reach Garak's eyes. "Be proud. It was a clever plan." 

* * *

It takes days before Julian works up the courage to see him again. 

He'd rebuffed Sisko's insistence that he take personal leave after what happened on Empok Nor. Better he be the one to treat Garak's condition, he'd argued. Better he be there in case something went wrong. And the Captain had agreed to it, however grudgingly, on the condition that the rest of his work be research-based, far from the stress and potential malpractice of the infirmary.

It's a good compromise.

It's spared him from having to leave his quarters and face anyone else in the station. The rumors will have spread by now. Miles might have been decent enough to listen to his side of things, but there's nothing stopping Boq'ta and Amaro and Nog from sharing their version of events. For explaining why Stolzoff and Pechetti never made it home.

And that means that by now the entire station knows.

And maybe it's already blown over. Maybe the novelty has already worn off. Maybe some other bizarre anomaly has emerged from the wormhole and caused chaos on the station.

It doesn't matter. He can't hide away forever.

When he does emerge from his quarters, he's out of uniform. His civilian clothes are as bland and inoffensive as he can manage without clashing with his one accessory. Despite his best efforts, it's poor camouflage: from the moment he steps onto the promenade he feels eyes on him, following his every movement. Excellent. Another chapter to add to the rumor. At least they'll be able to say they saw it firsthand when he entered Garak's Clothiers, and _oh, did you see what he was wearing?_

The shop is empty of customers. The sign declares the establishment is closed for lunch, but the door is still unlocked. 

He steps inside.

There's a moment's silence. "Doctor Bashir, come in. What a pleasant surprise." 

Julian wants so badly to run out that door, hide in his quarters, and bury his face in Kukalaka's fur until the heat death of the universe.

He forces a smile. "I wanted to check in with you. Make sure you’re doing alright."

Garak's returned smile is far more convincing. "But of course. I can assure you, I've made a full recovery." 

"That's good to hear." It’s hot in here. It always is in this shop. Far too hot for the silk scarf around Julian's throat. His hand creeps to the knot that hangs just over his collarbone. "There was something else I wanted to discuss with you." 

Garak's façade doesn't crack. Not even when the scarf falls away entirely. 

A row of crescent scars run down the sides of Julian's neck, pale and silvery against brown skin. Between the regular intervals of the bites and their lateral symmetry, they almost look like the broad scales that run down Garak's ridges.

“Ah.” Garak’s voice has lost its cheerful lilt. “I assumed the dermal regenerator would have made quick work of those.”

“It would.” Julian can’t look at him. “I wanted to talk to you about it first.”

"What exactly would you like to discuss?" 

It would be so much easier if he could read the emotion in Garak's face, in his voice, but he's gone utterly blank. 

"I know you weren't in your right mind when you— when this happened." He takes a breath. Steadies himself. "If you don’t want the reminder, I can make it disappear. We can go back to our lunches and our literature, and we never have to speak of it again."

A long silence hangs between them. Garak breaks it with the utmost care. "Is that what you want?"

“I want to know if you still mean what you said.”

He braces himself. Waits for the evasion, the ' _we were there for hours, I said a good deal of things_ ', but it doesn't come. Silently, Garak invites him to put words to the question.

And so he does.

“I want to know if I’m still yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is finished, but I've got a partially written story that works within this same continuity, and I may make it a series?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank the Prophets for the episode scripts over at [Star Trek Minutiae](https://www.st-minutiae.com/resources/scripts/)
> 
> Thanks to Prairiecrow for "ss'lei" as a term of endearment, which I feel is entirely too appropriate for Julian.


End file.
